One of the kids at the cancer hospital I visit has just died. I know I should be happy that one more child has passed on to Heaven, finally ending her suffering, but still, seven-year-old Beverly was one of my favorites. She never seemed very sick, really. She had a full head of hair and wasn't as thin as the others. How I took it for granted that every Thursday at 10:00 A.M., Beverly would be there in the playroom, waiting for our art class to begin.

She wasn't there today, and she never will be again.

They kept on telling me that. "Don't get attached to the kids." "You can't get attached to the kids." But I shrugged it off, thinking I could take it. I understood that their lives hung by a thread, and I could deal with it when the thread unraveled. Other volunteers before me had dropped out because kids they'd grown to love had died. It was all too much for them. But I was strong. I wouldn't be so affected.

And yet, here I am, crying my eyes out.

Perhaps Beverly was an angel, too good for this world, so she was given her wings before the rest of us. She seemed untouched by the evils of this world and was too innocent to know of the pain that loved ones leave in their wake when they pass on.

The question is not a matter of whether they will live or die, but rather if I will live to love them.

It doesn't seem to make sense. Not for Beverly, and not for the others whose lives will be cut short--thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Am I wasting my time by investing in these little souls who will experience so little more of life? If their existence is so short-term, then is it right for me to love them as though they will live forever?

Asking myself these questions led to a surprising answer: Because their futures are so unpredictable, every day counts. Every second counts. The question is not a matter of whether they will live or die, but rather if I will live to love them.

There is no glory in this job. I know it will bring more pain each time I witness another young life slipping away. It is inevitable that I will again become attached, only to lose someone very dear to my heart.

There is no glory, but there is comfort. It is the comfort of knowing that if I can be a touch of love in the hearts of others who will take a remembrance of that love with them--be they here on earth or in the next world--then I have done what matters most.

Beverly had lived for seven years. I may live seventy more. I don't know. Nobody knows. Death can take anyone by surprise. But whatever happens and whatever I see when I get to Heaven, there is one face that will not surprise me. Standing there at the reception, waiting to welcome me to a place where there will be no more suffering or crying or death, will be the beautiful face of an angel--an angel named Beverly.